A Maze of Murders

by Paul Doherty

  ‘We stumbled and fumbled,’ she remarked, ‘yet it did not take long. The assassin would have moved more speedily. Now, Colum, we must return to the Weeping Cross and using this map,’ Kathryn tapped the vellum, ‘find our way out. I wager our assassin must have secretly practised walking these paths.’

  Kathryn felt apprehensive but confident that her hypothesis was correct. They returned to the Weeping Cross easily enough and began their return along the needle-thin, shade-filled lanes, the hedgerows pressing in around them.

  ‘It reminds me of going through a forest,’ Colum whispered. ‘The trees closely packed, the bracken growing waist high whilst the silent darkness hides an enemy, arrow notched or crossbow ready.’

  ‘But not here,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Just the phantasms of our minds. The fears of our souls. Isn’t it strange, Colum?’ She paused at a corner. ‘Doesn’t this awake childish fears, of lonely dark corridors, of empty passageways? No wonder Sir Walter chose this. A man lost in his own dreams, a remorse-filled past. He would feel at home here, cut off from the rest of the world.’

  ‘Let’s get out,’ Colum said. ‘I do not like this place.’

  Kathryn used the map she had drawn; two mistakes set the panic bubbling within her but, eventually, they turned a corner and reached the entrance. The great manor lay silent before them. Occasionally Kathryn glimpsed a face at the window but she didn’t know whether it was someone watching or one of the servants busy at their tasks. They returned to the stables, where ostlers and grooms lounged on benches sunning themselves, waiting for the cavalcade to arrive from Canterbury.

  ‘We will not make our farewells,’ Kathryn murmured.

  Colum agreed, secured their horses and, a short while later, they left Ingoldby Hall.

  ‘I would like to go to Greyfriars.’

  Kathryn reined in the gentle cob, patting its neck. She listened to a thrush’s lucid song ringing out through the hazy summer air, and she could also hear the faint cries of the harvesting parties in the fields beyond the hedgerow.

  ‘But first we’ll visit the Vaudois woman.’

  ‘Could she truly be the assassin?’ Colum asked.

  ‘All things are possible.’ Kathryn gently urged her cob on. ‘She may be old but she’s wiry enough. She knows the secret path through that copse and, perhaps, how to thread that maze. I certainly want to question her. Was she there the day Sir Walter was killed? More importantly, what was she doing there watching us this morning? Is she as mad as she pretends to be?’

  They reached the small turning, down the narrow lane leading to the old hunting lodge. The Vaudois woman was sitting on a log some distance from the house, busily fashioning a chain of flowers, rocking backwards and forwards, humming under her breath. At first she didn’t see or hear their horses; when she did, she jumped to her feet and ran towards the house. Instead of going inside, she sat down on the bench just near the door, acting like a child who had been caught where she shouldn’t have been. Colum and Kathryn dismounted and hobbled their horses. The Vaudois woman had changed her red dress to one of dark blue, buttoned high at the neck. Kathryn noticed the scuffed brown boots on her feet; good protection, she thought, for someone walking a cobbled trackway, climbing a wall and following that secret path through the undergrowth.

  ‘Mistress, we greet you.’

  The Vaudois woman’s head went down, and she stared at Kathryn from under her eyebrows.

  ‘You’ve changed.’ Kathryn picked up a stool near the outside table and sat down near her.

  ‘Not changed,’ the woman mumbled. ‘Still waiting.’ Her head came up. ‘Has the messenger arrived?’ She brought her hands together, imitating a rider urging on his horse.

  ‘You know the messenger hasn’t come,’ Kathryn replied. ‘This is not the first time I have seen you today, Mistress. I glimpsed your red gown in the copse near the great meadow of Ingoldby Hall. You crossed the trackway and climbed the wall, didn’t you? You followed a secret path. You were watching me and Master Murtagh until I saw you, then you hurried away?’

  For a short while, a few heartbeats, the empty, vacant look disappeared: the cunning, knowing gaze in the Vaudois woman’s eyes alarmed Kathryn. She had made a mistake! This woman was not fey or witless, she had moments of lucidity, of reasonableness, as her soul drifted in and out of its own dark, tangled nightmare.

  ‘You often climb that wall, don’t you?’ Kathryn continued. ‘You go and sit and watch the maze? What’s happening in the manor house? You see it as your house don’t you? Your property? Did you resent Sir Walter? Baulk at his kindness?’

  ‘I go home sometimes,’ the Vaudois replied, ‘to see that all is well. No harm done. I was queen there once.’ She combed her iron-grey, straggly hair with her fingers. ‘I used to eat on the lawn, white wine cooled in the cellars, the most succulent of meat.’ She pressed her hands against her belly. ‘I was beautiful then.’

  ‘Were you there the day Sir Walter died?’ Colum, standing behind Kathryn, asked. He studied the Vaudois woman’s wrists and arms. This woman, who could climb a wall and thread so skilfully along a woodland path, would have little difficulty with an axe or sword, especially if her heart burned with angry revenge at the new lord of Ingoldby.

  ‘Did you see Sir Walter as an usurper?’ Kathryn asked.

  ‘Beautiful wife,’ the Vaudois woman replied. Her gaze held Kathryn’s in a frank, knowing stare. Something in her face, a steely malevolence, chilled Kathryn. ‘Beautiful wife,’ she repeated, her voice tinged with sarcasm. ‘Long, gold hair like mine used to be, or was mine black as night?’

  ‘Were you there?’ Kathryn asked.

  She heard a sound inside the house and the sweat on her back prickled like ice-cold water. She rose to her feet. Colum caught her alarm, his hand going to his sword. Ursula emerged through the doorway. The Brabantine crossbow had been primed and ready, the stout cord wound back, the cruel barbed bolt in its niche. Ursula held it with one hand; in the other she held a second arbalest, its cord pulled taut. She stood in the doorway and carefully placed the second arbalest against the lintel. Using both hands Ursula pointed the arbalest at Kathryn’s chest, ready to release the lever, to loose that hideous bolt, to shatter flesh and bone. Ursula’s hair was tied back, her face calm, her eyes deadly calculating in their intent.

  ‘Mistress Ursula.’ Kathryn stepped back. ‘Mistress Ursula,’ she repeated. ‘This is foolishness. We mean your mother no harm.’

  Ursula simply lifted the arbalest a little higher, her gaze full on Kathryn.

  ‘Irishman, take your hand from your sword. Do not doubt me.’ She gestured with her head to the back of the house. ‘We have a garden, a few apple trees, some herbs, a few flowers, but there are also some graves. Do you know that?’ She smiled at Kathryn. ‘Irishmen,’ she whispered. ‘They came here during the troubles when the great ones were marching up and down with banners flying. They wanted to take a chicken or two.’ Ursula half-smiled. ‘They thought they’d also take us, mother and daughter. Kings on the dung heap they were, three of them.’ She gestured with her hand. ‘They sat at that table drinking our ale, preparing, as they laughed, for a night of roistering. I killed all three! Two with the crossbow, and the third was so drunk all I had to do was slit his throat. Mother helped me strip and bury them. We sold their weapons and possessions to a passing pedlar. They wouldn’t leave us alone, you see.’

  Kathryn stood rigid. She was aware of Colum’s rapid breathing, of her own fear; her throat was so dry she could hardly talk, her legs felt weak, the heat was so oppressive yet she dared not move. She had met violence: Alexander Wyville had been violent and, before he lashed out with fists or belt, his face was the same as Ursula’s, tight and drawn, that hate-filled gaze, the voice mockingly soft. Ursula would kill, and kill again, and not spare a second thought. Kathryn heard Colum move.

  ‘Please!’

  Ursula clicked her tongue. ‘What are you going to do, Irishman? Come between me and your leman? The bolt will
be in her soft chest even as you move. Try and draw that sword; perhaps you have a knife in the top of your boot? Stand away, Irishman! Stand away!’

  Her voice rose to a scream as Colum walked a few paces. Kathryn turned her head. Colum didn’t gaze back, his eyes intent on Ursula.

  ‘If you hurt her, Mistress,’ his voice came softly, ‘I will take your mad head and that of your mother’s!’

  Ursula stepped back as if to keep them in full view, the arbalest still raised, not trembling, no flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

  ‘You have come on to this land. You accuse my mother. Is that the way it’s going to go, eh? Yes, you saw her there this morning. She often enters Ingoldby and stares at what was hers, what rightfully should be hers.’

  ‘There’s no crime in that.’ Kathryn found her voice. ‘No harm has been done.’

  ‘No!’ The arbalest pointed straight at her. ‘You will come back, won’t you? Sir Walter has died, a great lord of the land. That maid died. Oh yes, I hear all the stories! We thought we’d live peacefully here.’

  Kathryn found her panic beginning to recede. Something had startled this woman, alarmed her so much she was prepared to kill.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Ursula continued. ‘I have heard the noises at night.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Colum interjected.

  ‘Shut up, Irishman! Come Mistress.’ She mocked Kathryn. ‘You’ll return with warrants and soldiers, you’ll arrest my mother.’

  Kathryn’s gaze shifted to the Vaudois woman sitting on the bench, feet apart, hands on her knees, a malicious smile on her face, rocking herself backwards and forwards as if savouring every moment of this.

  ‘You’ll arrest my mother and me for the murder. You’ll point to the wall, the secret trackway through the copse. You’ll argue my mother took a two-edged axe from a leather sack, that she entered that maze and killed Sir Walter.’

  Kathryn drew a deep breath to calm herself.

  ‘I know the lawyers. They are clever little men with their pointed noses and fur-edged gowns, the ones who took Ingoldby from her and drove us out. They will say my mother’s heart was full of vengeance, that she knew the maze, she’d learnt its secret paths and that she was mad enough to crawl back one night, place Sir Walter’s head on a pole and burn that hedge. Oh, yes, we saw the fire and you, Mistress, dashing about like a rabbit, backwards and forwards, busy, busy.’

  ‘How do you know it was a two-edged axe?’ Kathryn asked.

  Ursula blinked. ‘Clever, very clever, you see.’ She turned her head slightly sideways. ‘But that’s the way it will go.’

  ‘What are these sounds at night?’ Kathryn asked, as a second wave of panic threatened to engulf her. She played with the loving ring Colum had given her. ‘Mistress, for all I know you are as innocent as a dove. I simply came here to ask some questions.’

  ‘She has a nice ring,’ the mother rasped. ‘Look at the ring, Ursula. Can I have that?’ The Vaudois woman got to her feet. ‘I used to have a ring like that but they took it from me.’ Her face turned ugly. ‘Turned out in my shift like some common whore! Sir Walter, all kind and gentle, allowing us to stay here in the old hunting lodge; a goose at Christmas, a hare for the pot at Easter.’ Her upper lip curled like a dog snarling. ‘Me!’

  The Vaudois glared at Kathryn’s ring as if it represented all she’d once owned and lost. She brushed by her daughter. Kathryn stepped back. The Vaudois, ignoring her own daughter’s exclamations, hurled herself at Kathryn, clawlike hands going for the ring finger. Kathryn grasped the woman’s wrists, pulling her between herself and Ursula who was now screaming, arbalest chin high. Out of the corner of her eye Kathryn glimpsed Colum coming forward at a crouch, sword snaking up. The crossbow snapped, a whirr and the Vaudois almost slammed into Kathryn, her face all shocked, eyes staring, mouth open as if to scream. Ursula was yelling. The Vaudois’s grip slackened. Blood bubbles appeared in her nose, a trickle spurted from the corner of her mouth, her eyes fluttered as she crumpled to the ground.

  Ursula was now picking up the second arbalest, only this time it was no longer pointing at Kathryn but towards Colum, who’d slipped on the cobbles. Kathryn wanted to scream. She stared down. The Vaudois was lying sideways, blood gushing out of her mouth, the ugly quarrel embedded deep between her shoulder blades. Further screams as Ursula moved to avoid Colum’s sword but the Irishman cut, slicing deep into her neck, severing the blood cords. Ursula staggered away. The arbalest slipped from her grip as her hands went out as if to staunch the wound. She crashed against the side of the house, gave a loud sigh and crumpled to the bench, then rolled off that onto the ground beside her mother. Colum stood, resting on his sword, fighting for breath. Kathryn felt as if the whole world was moving; the sunlight seemed to have gone. She staggered to the stool and sat down, arms wrapped across her middle, her breath hot and shallow as if someone was suffocating her. Colum touched her. Bile filled the back of her throat, bubbling like sour wine. Kathryn moved her feet. Was there strength in her legs? And why did she feel so cold? Colum gripped her and dragged her to her feet; moving her to the grassy verge beside the house, he gently made her sit down, then returned with a pewter bowl.

  ‘It’s wine.’ Colum’s voice sounded as if from a distance, as if he was shouting down an alleyway.

  ‘Kathryn, drink the wine.’

  She did so but gagged and retched. Colum took the wine bowl out of her hand. Kathryn lay down upon the grass, so cool and green! She felt as if she was back in the small orchard at the back of her own house. Lying down, away from the heat, her eyelids felt heavy. Colum was moving around but she didn’t care what he was doing. She must have drifted into a shallow sleep, and when she suddenly woke, her feet felt free. She rolled over and glanced up.

  ‘My boots! You’ve taken my boots!’

  Kathryn sat up; her headdress lay on the grass a distance away. The hem of her gown was wet, whilst her boots were on the stool. There was no sign of the corpses, just pools of blood glistening near the doorway where the Vaudois had collapsed. Colum crouched down; his face looked leaner, younger, eyes watchful.

  ‘I took your boots off, Kathryn, they were splashed with blood, the same for the hem of your dress. Here, I found a small cask of vinegar.’ Colum touched the blotches on her dress. ‘I also washed your hands and face. I became frightened. You were sleeping, your face was like that of a ghost.’ He grinned. ‘It’s good to see the colour return and the life sparkle in those beautiful eyes. Both the women dead. I have moved their corpses to the back of the house and placed them under a sheet. Kathryn, can you stay here? I must return to Ingoldby Hall. I’ll have Gurnell’s retainers guard this place until I send men from King’s Mead . . .’

  ‘No, no.’ Kathryn grasped his hand; it felt warm to her cold touch. ‘Don’t leave me, Colum, I feel better. What I need is dry bread and watered wine, make sure the water is fresh. There’s a rain butt at the side of the house.’

  Colum left briefly and returned with a wooden platter. The bread looked dry, though it was wholesome enough, probably a day old. Kathryn ate it slowly and sipped at the watered wine. She no longer felt cold or nauseated. She stretched out her fingers, curled her toes, recalling what her father had taught her about the effects of deep fear. She stared around: things no longer moved, the shabby hunting lodge, the open door, the bench, the broken cobbled yard, the disused bucket. A peaceful scene except for the blood drying in the late summer’s afternoon.

  ‘I feel better. Colum, what on earth caused that?’ She felt the anger well within her. ‘We meant no harm. We did no harm. We simply came to ask questions; that cut, you took her. . . .?’

  ‘In the neck,’ Colum retorted harshly. ‘Here.’ He pressed Kathryn’s neck. ‘Just above the bone.’ Colum plucked a blade of grass and began to chew on its edge, eyes never leaving her. ‘Kathryn, she meant to kill you. They meant to kill us both. You are a physician, Kathryn. You look for the small things, the symptoms. What is missing, what is out of place! You
pluck at loose threads. You are sharp witted and keen. You. . . .’ Colum closed his eyes searching for words. ‘You are self possessed! The more we investigate such bloody business, like those we have done in the past, the more skilled you become. I admire you, Mistress Swinbrooke.’

  ‘Are you trying to seduce me, Irishman? Flattery will achieve everything.’

  ‘No, I am trying to explain,’ Colum replied heatedly. ‘I describe what you are whilst I know what I am.’ He edged a little closer, pressing a forefinger against her lips. ‘I am a soldier, Kathryn. I am like Mawsby and Gurnell, a master-at-arms. I love horses, their stabling, their management, what they are to be fed, their different seasons, but at the end of the day, I am a soldier, I kill people. Because I do that, I sometimes recognise other killers when I meet them. Ursula and her mother, although at first they hid it well, were full of hate and resentment. Perhaps they were right?’ He pulled a face. ‘Perhaps they had good cause to be? They nursed grievances like a man does a wound which never heals.’

  ‘I don’t blame you for killing Ursula.’

  Colum glanced away. ‘She was a woman,’ he murmured, ‘though that doesn’t change anything. Ursula was going to kill me and, above all, she was going to kill you. I recognised that, as soon as she came through that doorway.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘I’ve searched the back of the house. I have found the corpses of at least three others buried in quick lime. She was going to put a bolt in your heart and, if she could, one in mine. They would have stripped our corpses. . . .’ He left his words hanging in the air.

  ‘But why?’ Kathryn insisted.

  ‘I’ve searched this benighted place,’ Colum replied. He rose to his feet, stretched out his hand and helped her up. ‘You feel well?’

  Kathryn drew a deep breath.

  ‘Where are the horses?’

  ‘They became agitated at the smell of blood. I moved them further down the lane. They are cropping at the grass. Come, I must show you this.’